Born in Darkness

by J. Kenner

  I eyed them both curiously, then unwrapped the bundle. A black jumpsuit and a matching black hood, with slits for eyes, nose, and mouth. “It’s what all the fashionable demonic assassins are wearing this year.”

  “Indeed,” Zane said.

  “And if I’m running around like this, why can’t I carry more weapons? This is hardly going to be inconspicuous.”

  “You can peel the hood off after the attack,” he said reasonably. “And then you will look like nothing more than a beautiful woman in a skintight suit.”

  “Oh.”

  He pointed to the shower area. “Go.”

  I went, and when I came back, I felt like I should perform a series of complicated martial arts movements. Or at the very least, creep silently around the room, ninja-style.

  Zane, however, wasn’t amused. Just the opposite, and I could see the desire that my rather formfitting outfit sparked in his eyes.

  “You were right about skintight,” I said.

  “Now,” Clarence said, “there is no more time to be wasted.”

  “Where am I going?” I asked. “My arm tells where the Box is, right? So where do I go now? The symbols are a map? Can you read them?”

  “Pull back your sleeve,” he said, as Zane stepped back, his gaze fixed on the two of us.

  I did and found myself looking once again at that strange, pulsating symbol now burned into my arm. If there was a location carved in there, I sure as hell didn’t see it.

  Clarence took my left hand in his. “Cover it,” he said. “Cover it with your other hand.”

  I almost asked why, then decided that I’d find out soon enough. I pressed my palm over the symbol and felt an immediate, uncomfortable tug at my navel, so hard and so quick that I couldn’t even scream. Instead, I was being yanked through space, Zane’s basement melting away to be replaced by blackness. Terrifying, swirling blackness, filled with low moans and winds and a million creepy electrical sensations that crawled over my body, making me writhe and squirm and open my mouth in a soundless scream.

  And then there was nothing. Just blackness that seemed to curl around me like a blanket. I couldn’t see anything, so I had no perspective, but even so, I somehow knew that I was moving fast, faster than was possible in the real world. I was hurtling through space, through dimensions, through time itself, and the thought both scared and fascinated me, and I felt myself tightening my hand, remarkably relieved to find that I was still clutching Clarence’s fingers.

  This was the bridge, I realized. And he was my way back.

  Before I had time to think about where I might be going, I saw my destination. A street, and a row of houses, and it was like I was a bird, high above the world. Only then the bird started falling, falling, falling, and the ground was rushing up toward me. I was going to crash. I knew it I could practically feel the impact even before it happened, and I braced, fear clutching me, as the ground came closer, closer, closer, and then—

  Nothing.

  It was over.

  I was on a patch of dirt in a trashy yard, and I was breathing hard, and Clarence wasn’t holding my hand anymore, and when I looked up at the sky, I saw a strange, swirling mist, like a whirlpool consuming itself. And then it was gone.

  The portal, through which I’d traveled. A portal, I thought, that had opened in my own body.

  I stood up slowly and brushed myself off, and as I did, I realized I was smiling.

  Now, this, I thought, is cool.

  28

  The yard belonged to a run-down shack of a town house with chain link surrounding a front yard that consisted of dirt, aluminum beer cans, and cinder blocks. Charming.

  I stood still for a moment, trying to get my bearings, then realized I was standing in a pool of light coming from a strategically aimed porch light on the house I was targeting. Nothing like killing the element of surprise five seconds into the game.

  I knew enough to move out of the light, but despite repeated Law & Order viewings, I had a less-than-honed sense of how to infiltrate a building that housed the target of an assassination. I doubted that a frontal assault in full view of street traffic made sense, though, and so I crept around to the back. I kept a knife in each hand, ready to flail and stab like my life depended on it. Which, of course, it did.

  I entered low, proud of myself for remembering that little tidbit, and was almost disappointed to realize there was no one there trying to halt my progress, no one pressed in beside the refrigerator holding a gun aimed at my chest. I had a clear path through the moldering kitchen, and with the scent of rotting milk filling my nostrils, I eased through a dusty dining room, finally emerging at a wide-open foyer dominated by a staircase that must have once been a stunning focal point, but now stood forlorn and sagging.

  I edged toward it, taking the first step carefully in case the wood beneath my feet crumbled. It seemed solid enough, and thus encouraged, I continued to climb. The balustrade shook under my hand, and I inched to the side, letting go of the rail as I climbed steadily upward, the tip of my knife scraping the plaster on the wall with a sound that resembled mouse claws on concrete.

  I tugged the blade back, holding it close to my waist, afraid the mouse claws had given me away. I stopped, frozen on the stairs, listening for any sound, any hint of motion from above. I was met only with silence. Reassured, I recommenced my climb, this time with only the soft pad of my shoes against the stair tread to telegraph my presence.

  The floorboards creaked as I hit the landing, and I tensed, certain that this time, I would be found out. But no light illuminated the darkness of the upper level, no face emerged from the shadow, no footfalls echoed in the stillness. It was so quiet that I was beginning to wonder if the magic map on my arm had delivered me to the wrong house.

  I took the rooms one at a time, a knife in each hand, the penlight I’d tucked in my back pocket now wedged under my watchband so that both hands were free to cling like grim death to my weapons. The floor was empty, and from all evidence, no one had visited these rooms in months, possibly years.

  I jammed the point of one of the knives into the balcony rail, then peered over it into the living room below. Barren, except for a few pieces of furniture covered with drop cloths. A shaft of light cut across the room, streaming in from the window overlooking the front porch and revealing a warped wooden floor covered with a perfectly smooth layer of dust marred only by a set of footprints leading from the back of the house toward the stairs I’d just ascended.

  Curious and encouraged, I inched back toward the stairs, then shined the light down into the abyss. Sure enough, another set of footprints mirrored my own, continuing forward upon reaching the landing instead of turning as I had. With the beam narrowed, I followed the feet, then frowned as they walked up to a wall. Dead end.

  What the . . . ?

  I splayed the light on the papered wall, focusing on the seams, then trailed the beam down to the floor. Years of wear had smushed the central strip of the carpet that covered the landing. The edges, however, remained in good condition. Everywhere, that is, except for the spot where the footprints ended. There, the fibers were well-worn, as if a constant flood of visitors had pressed their bodies flat against the wall and stood there. Just stood there doing nothing.

  Not damn likely.

  I leaned forward, pressing my fingertips to the wallpaper seams, searching for a latch to operate the door. Another room back there, or perhaps another staircase. But whatever it was, it led to my mark. And I knew I couldn’t leave without finding the Caller. Finding him, killing him, and destroying the Box.

  I can’t say that I’ve ever searched for a hidden room before, but after some delicate probing, I found the telltale indentation. I pressed the soft spot, and damned if the latch didn’t click and the entire panel swing inward on greased hinges.

  The small room that was revealed lacked the abandoned-junk miasma of the public areas. Both sparsely furnished and spotlessly clean, this section of the house screamed out with utili
tarian function. What it didn’t have—at least not that I could see—was an occupant.

  Having already been through the drill once, I found the next hidden door with significantly less trouble. This one led to a winding staircase that circled up to the attic before opening onto yet another landing. This time—finally—I saw signs of life. A shadow moving within, but without any urgency. Good. With any luck, that meant my demon hadn’t heard me coming.

  The stairs were metal, and I moved at a snail’s pace, fearful of causing a creak that would shatter the silence.

  Somehow, I made it up without announcing myself to the world. I slowed as I approached the landing, then eased my eyes over the edge, peering up at the room while holding my breath.

  Considering my lack of skill with regard to stealth approaches, I was pleasantly surprised to see that my tack worked, and I was even more pleased to see that I wasn’t facing multiple occupants. The single demon stood at an angle to me, facing something in the corner of the room at about my nine o’clock. I could see the side of his face, angular and deceptively human. A familiar knot tightened in my gut, and I reminded myself that the beast was vile. More than that, he was working to end the world.

  As I watched, the creature turned his focus to the fireplace behind him and to the left. It was the mantel that attracted him—glowing with inlaid gold and gemstones, and marked with etchings that seemed like some sort of bastardization of Egyptian hieroglyphics. The thing clearly had some intense ceremonial value, but though it might be ancient and powerful, it held no sway with me.

  Or, it didn’t until he pressed his palm flat against the ornamental center and a door to the left slid open, revealing an ornate golden box.

  The Box of Shankara.

  Perfect.

  I’d arrived in time. Destroy the Box, kill the demon, get home in time for a few prime-time television programs on my glorious night off waitressing.

  I sliced my palm with my knife, letting the blood flow. If my blood destroyed the Box, I wanted to be prepared. Then I tightened my grip on my knives and considered my approach. Maybe ten yards between us, with a clear path over a carpeted floor. His back was to me, and if I moved slowly and stealthily, I might be able to continue my clandestine approach. I couldn’t bank on it, though. For all I knew, the gems in the mantel reflected the room into his eyes.

  I didn’t want to be the assassin who blew her first mission because she trusted that her ambush would succeed. Instead, I was going to abandon caution and rush the bastard. I’d have to run like the fires of hell were nipping at my ass, but since they were, I figured I could manage that.

  I took a deep breath and barreled forward at a breakneck pace, planning to launch myself over the Box and take care of that little detail first. The launching part went okay, but the rest was a complete nightmare. The kind where you realize after it’s too late that the stealthy approach probably would have been better. Always go with your first instincts, after all.

  As I leaped, the Caller turned, a set of broad wings bursting through the thin material of his shirt as they unfolded, then catching me across the middle as he spun around. The effect was a lesson in physics—two objects in motion collide with unequal force. And one guess which object absorbed the blow and went flying.

  I landed on the far side of the room, knocked into a bookcase that teetered recklessly but didn’t fall and brain me. The beast took a menacing step toward me, fangs suddenly visible on that advertising-exec smile. His fingers no longer looked like a man’s—they had somehow elongated into thin, bony structures with sharp talons, each of which was now pointed right at me. “You.”

  The word was an accusation, and I fought the automatic response to edge backward, to deny. Instead, I burst forward, knives flying, and the words Zane had said when he’d first put my knife in my hand echoing in my mind: Do what you were made for and you cannot fail.

  Apparently not words to live by, because one broad thrust of that wing sent the knife in my right hand flying. I clutched the left one tighter as the demon ripped upward, slicing my ninja suit to ribbons and bringing thin lines of blood up on my abdomen before sliding back and peering hard at me. “It is true, then. The prophecy.” He blinked, lids closing side to side over marble-black eyes. “And on which side do you stand as you straddle the line?”

  I thrust my left hand out, the tip of my blade pointed right at the demon. “Do not even try to play games with me. I’m on the side that will see you dead.”

  Those alien eyes narrowed only briefly before he was on me, so fast that I had no time to think, much less react. His wings spread wide so that I could see nothing but his face and torso and the thin, gray membrane of wings spread wide on spindly bones, fragile in appearance, but containing deadly strength.

  The long, taloned fingers of his hand grasped my neck and squeezed, the grip like a vise. With the wing itself, he pressed my arm back. I struggled—so help me, I did—but I couldn’t move the hand with the knife.

  I was trapped. And that pretty much sucked. Because despite all my training, all my gifts, all the prophesied bullshit, I was no match for this creature, and as a reddish gray swirled around me, I couldn’t help but wonder if this had all been a big cosmic joke. Kill Lily in a big way. Make her pay for trying to protect her sister. Crush her illusions that there was any justice in the world. Make her pay for doing what needed to be done.

  The Caller’s eyes burned into mine, the wings still holding my arms out to the side, useless. His hands were more deadly. One remained on my neck; with the other he pressed against my forehead, and so firmly I feared my bones would snap.

  I wasn’t going down like this, though, and I looked him in the eye, staring a defiant screw you deep into those black orbs even as I struggled.

  All bravado, I knew. He would snap my neck. Any second, he’d snap, and I’d be dead. Again.

  I twisted violently to the side, managing to loosen his grip on my neck. As I did, I shot upward, forcing our skulls together and setting off a July Fourth-style fireworks display in my head. I ignored the fact that it felt like my cranium had shattered and my brains were spilling out on the Oriental carpet. Instead, I did the only thing I knew how to do—I whaled on the guy. Arms weaving, knife flashing, I caught him across the arms, sliced the wings, and took off an ear with one fateful blow.

  The kill shot, however, eluded me, and we dodged and parried, me bouncing and weaving and pretending I knew what the hell I was doing; him lunging with talons and claws and a strength borne straight from hell. “You are flawed,” he taunted. “Incomplete. Failure is your destiny,” he added with a black-eyed smirk. “For even if you win this battle, the war will not go your way.”

  “I’ll take the battle,” I said, then thrust my knife, managing to slide it into the narrow space left open between his flailing arms and wings. The shot went home, and as I watched, the demon sagged on my knife.

  It wasn’t a kill shot, though, and he stumbled across the room to the Box, with me right there with him.

  He lashed out with his wing, knocking me back, and his talons fumbled at the Box even as I scrambled forward, trying desperately to touch the Box with my bloody hand, hoping that alone would be enough.

  I didn’t make it.

  I was only inches away when he held the Box high. I heard the demon’s whisper of “Disparea!” and in the blink of an eye, the Box disappeared.

  “Noooooo!” I screamed, then rushed forward and thrust my blade through the beast’s heart.

  And with its last dying breath, the demon smiled at me.

  The Caller was dead.

  But the Box was gone. And I’d failed to even take the battle.

  The snap didn’t come.

  Instead, as I looked into his eyes, my body convulsed, and my head filled with a pain not my own.

  Touch and eyes.

  Mist-encased images of the beast accosted me—images of him locked in combat with someone I couldn’t see, but somehow knew was not me. Who? Even as my air
supply dwindled and my body fought pain and terror, I searched my mind for a better angle. For some hint of what I was seeing and why.

  I don’t know how, but I knew this was not the past. This was a Thing Yet to Be, and though I didn’t understand how that could be any more than I understood how I’d come about because of a prophecy, at the same time I knew that it was absolutely real. What I was seeing would happen.

  Or, at least, it would if the path didn’t alter.

  The thoughts whipped through my mind, forming, but not cohesive. Instead, I was inundated with information. Thoughts. Images. Impressions. Conclusions. A nightmarish mishmash that centered around this vision of the beast locked in battle.

  In the vision, the beast released his battle partner long enough to reach behind him and pull a broadsword from a scabbard I hadn’t seen. Perhaps it hadn’t been there, and like a dream, it had materialized only when needed. He brought it up and over, his strength awe-inspiring, and as he moved to the side to follow through with the swing, I saw the face of the person with whom he was doing battle: Clarence.

  Like the bursting of a dam, the vision popped and my strength flooded back.

  “Fiend!” the Caller cried, momentarily loosening his grip. “You play tricks in my mind!”

  I didn’t bother to retort. I simply lashed out, fueled by fury, and that coupled with the fear of losing Clarence. Yes, he got on my nerves, but I’d grown fond of the little amphibian. More important, he was the one link between my old and new lives. And no one—no one—was messing with him while I was around.

  29

  I raced out of the demon’s house, my head filled with failure and my emotions crowing a victory.

  I needed to get away, to stuff these feelings inside. Compartmentalize. But I couldn’t. The essence was too fresh, the emotions too raw. A swell of pride. Of victory. Of intense martyrdom for having the cunning to stop the beast.

  I’d done things. Horrible things. Violent, awful, perverted things.